The Old Crossman

I rushed out the back door of the house and raced toward the rear of the garage. As I reached the garage, I was in total disbelief. It was Saturday! Saturdays were meant for play, yet my dad was toting 2x4s piece by piece and stacking them in the grass by his saw, hammer, and nails. This was not evidence of—nor preparation for—play. What in the world is he thinking? This man works five days a week, and now he’s going to work on Saturday too? I thought.

Acting as though I hadn’t noticed any of the aforementioned evidence, I said, “Hey, Dad, you want to throw the baseball?” Without breaking stride toward his construction goal, he replied, “Son, can’t you see that I’m working? I’m going to build some shelves for the garage, and then I’ll throw the ball with you.” Wrong answer. I was thinking more along the lines of throwing the ball now and resuming building when I got tired of playing.

I decided one more effort at persuasion was worth a try. I pleaded again but was met with a similar reply. My plans were foiled. This was shaping up to be the worst Saturday ever. No time to cry over spilled Mountain Dew—I had to pivot. If I couldn’t play baseball, then I’d pursue my second-favorite hobby: shooting something.

My dad had gifted me his childhood pellet gun—a Crossman .22 all-wood pump-action pellet gun. I loved it. If you pumped it seven times, it had the power of a .22 rimfire rifle. Since pellets were super cheap, I shot it all the time.

I grabbed the Crossman and wandered over to the growing pile of wasted wood from Dad’s menacing project. Spotting a 3-foot-long 2x4, I walked about 15 yards from where he was working and shoved the angled-cut end into the ground. Borrowing his pencil, I scribbled a dot onto the board near the top. Once satisfied with my makeshift target, I walked back to my strategic shooting post.

Once there, I pumped the Crossman seven times, lowered it, opened the bolt, carefully placed a pellet in the chamber, and rolled the bolt back closed. I’m unsure how long Dad had been paying attention to my activities, but he suddenly spoke up: “Do not shoot that pellet into that 2x4.”

I thought he’d lost his mind. Why couldn’t I shoot this board from his waste pile? It didn’t make sense! But I simply replied, “Yes, sir.”

Keeping one eye on my target and one eye on Dad’s movements, I waited for him to become fully engrossed in his project again. The moment his attention seemed elsewhere, I shouldered the Crossman, steadied its iron sights on that pencil mark, and pulled the trigger. The compressed air released; the pellet flew; and then—whack!—the pellet smashed into the 2x4.

Before I could blink, something slammed into the bridge of my nose—right between my eyes. It was the pellet! Dad instantly became a sage in my mind! How could this happen? How could that board ricochet a pellet back at me? More importantly—how had it missed flying into one of my eyes? Thank God!

I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. But there was still one more hurdle: Did Dad hear or see what just happened? Slowly turning toward him, I saw him working away at cutting shelves. Relief washed over me—he hadn’t witnessed my disobedience!

Quickly walking back to retrieve my ill-fated target board, I unearthed it from its spot in the ground and gladly returned it to its rightful place in the waste pile. As I tossed it back onto the heap, Dad said without looking up: “I’m glad you listened and didn’t shoot at it.”

I swallowed hard and replied simply: “Yes, sir. I think I’d rather help you finish building these shelves.”

Just because we can’t see how something could be true doesn’t mean it isn’t. Looking back now as an adult, I’m thankful for parents who loved me enough to help me avoid troubles only experienced eyes can foresee.